


The Last Word

by starcrossedgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-28
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:16:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcrossedgirl/pseuds/starcrossedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For abrae's prompt: rain/bare trees/pavement</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Word

London at night is deceptive. From a birds-eye perspective, it’s all sharp, glittering pinpricks of light, a winding network with an explosion at its centre which trails paths outwards, into the black. It’s one pulsing, connected mass of energy, from the vantage point of a broom, bursting with life. 

Perhaps Harry would still see it the same, were he up there. But he can’t bring himself to fly, and down here on the ground, London changes its face. The lights from the city swallow the stars from the sky, reflecting dull grey off the clouds; they connect nothing, not truly. The rain-slick pavement beneath Harry’s feet echoes with the loneliness of the countless people that walked here before, cut adrift in a sea of people. 

Right now, the streets around Grimmauld Place are deserted. Hermione’s voice in his head drowns out the far-off hum of the city, however, follows along with his every step. _You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Harry_ , and _I believe you; you’re probably right -- he doesn’t mean it, but... how many times have you gone back and apologised for something you shouldn’t need to apologise for?_ , and _Has he ever? Even once?_

And then, of course, the kicker: _Perhaps you should just take him at his word, this time. Stay away, get the hell out of his sight._

Harry knows she is right, he does. But London at night is empty and cold, millions of people without a thread to tie them together. It was so that first night, and it is still, on the sixth, with the drizzle creeping its way past his collar and under his shirt, with the biting edge of November in the air. 

He’s halfway to the steps when he spots the shadowy figure in the doorway. It springs into motion as he freezes, shifting lines of black against grey facades, then halts. 

Behind them, bare trees creak in the square, trapped by a border of concrete. 

“I’m sorry,” Severus says, his hair curling damp from the rain.


End file.
